


Two Weeks Out

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, West Wing Title Project, virii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-07
Updated: 2010-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The virus is coming in less than two weeks, and I'm the only one who can stop it. And I thought, I <cite>hoped</cite> you'd be able to help."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Weeks Out

**Author's Note:**

> Though she's listed as "Dr. Lee" in the Croatoan transcript, she's never given a first name, so I made one up. Thanks to Nichole for looking it over and making it a better story. Written for [**the West Wing title project**](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/1487052.html).

"I'm heading out, Dr. Lee. Do you want me to set the alarm?"

Adrienne Lee looked up from the chart notes she was finishing off and said, "It's all right, Carla. I'll do it in a few minutes."

"Okay," Carla replied. "Have a good night."

Adrienne listened for the sound of the office door clicking shut, but instead of going back to the chart she was working on, she leaned back in the chair and stretched. She wanted to get out of here by seven tonight, kick her shoes off and lie on the couch in front of the television for a couple of hours. She stretched again, arms up over her head and back arched until the joints cracked. She grabbed her water bottle and, leaving her sensibly-heeled shoes under her desk, padded to the water cooler, which gurgled in the dimness of the small supply room. She took a long drink and filled it again.

She was walking the ten steps back to her office, in the process of screwing the cap back on her water bottle, when a voice said, "Do you know how many Dr. Lees there are in Portland?"

She jumped and dropped the bottle. It bounced on the linoleum, splashing her ankles before tipping over onto its side and spilling across the floor. The cap rolled away under the reception desk.

There was a strange guy standing in the waiting area, even though she was sure Mrs. Grainier had been her last patient for the night and Carla had locked the office door. She forced herself to breathe slowly, not to hyperventilate. It wasn't the best neighborhood, but she hadn't heard about any break-ins recently. "What the--Who are you? Do you have an appointment?"

The guy's shoulders slumped in what looked like disappointment. "You don't remember me? I'm Sam. We met a couple of years ago."

She stared at him, confused, her mind blank with fear.

"River Grove? Weird virus that turned the whole town in to zombies?" He cocked his head, as if he knew how ridiculous that sounded, and yet, she had to admit it was the truth.

Now that she'd gotten a good look at him, and her brain wasn't paralyzed with terror, she remembered. He looked older and tired and bigger, but she recognized him. "The fake marshals." He nodded. "You were the one Pam infected."

"Right."

As she remembered more about the incident, her brain came up with various horrific scenarios about what could have brought a guy who'd pretended to be a US Marshal--a guy who'd had an arsenal in the trunk of his car--to her door.

"What, what do you want?"

"I was hoping you could help me."

She could handle that. She relaxed a little, her pulse starting to settle down after the rush of fear. "Are you sick? You can come back into the exam room. I don't usually see patients after hours, but I can make an exception." She thought she pulled off businesslike pretty well.

He looked away, jaw clenching, and then looked back at her, his face hopeful, imploring. "We don't have time to play doctor, Doctor."

"Uh, okay, then." She supposed that was reassuring.

He looked confused for a moment and shook his head as if to clear it. "I was hoping you could help me create and distribute a vaccine for the virus. Since you already know it exists and what it looks like."

She blinked and forced her mouth to close when it wanted to drop open as her brain processed that statement. "I'm a GP, not a virologist." It was the only thing she could think to say. Her mother always said she'd spent too much time watching TV as a kid.

Sam wasn't even fazed. "What if we could get you a virologist? A whole team of biochemists?"

"We?" she asked, heart racing again, though there wasn't anyone else in the reception area that she could see.

"I'm here alone," he reassured her. "But I have," he paused, as if searching for the right word, "associates who can help."

Adrienne wished she hadn't left her cell phone in her office. Sam was the one who needed help, and she realized she wouldn't be able to give it to him without letting him think she was buying into his delusion.

"Okay, Sam," she said, nodding her head slowly. "I'm just going to clean up this spill," she pointed to the water spreading across the floor, "and you can tell me what it is you want me to do."

"Yeah, sure, of course," he said, looking sheepish. "I'm really sorry about that." She walked back to the supply room; he didn't follow, but it wasn't like she had anywhere to go. She grabbed a handful of paper towels from the closet over the water cooler and dropped them to the floor. He crouched down to wipe up the spill, and even bent nearly in thirds, he was still almost as tall as she was.

"Since I'm immune to the virus, you can use my blood to formulate a vaccine for it, right?" He looked up at her, and he seemed so hopeful and earnest that she felt bad disappointing him.

She shook her head. "That's not how it works."

"But it'd give you someplace to start."

"Maybe." She took the dirty paper towels from him, and forced herself not to flinch away when he stood, well inside her personal bubble. "There are years of testing involved, and huge amounts of money. I'd never seen a virus like that one, and even having seen it, I don't know that I could convince anyone who hadn't that it was real. The samples disappeared, and everyone who was infected is dead."

"Everyone but me." He took a step back, as if he realized he was looming. He hunched in on himself a little, and she thought he was probably used to making himself look smaller, harmless, because otherwise there was no way to explain how he suddenly looked like a little lost boy instead of a huge guy who was possibly in the midst of having a psychotic break.

"Everyone but you, and we're not even sure Pam actually infected you." At this point, Adrienne wasn't even sure the whole thing had actually happened, that it wasn't some sort of mass hallucination, but she was the only one still alive in the town after Mark and Duane and Sam and his brother had driven off. She'd stayed for a few days, but the CDC representatives hadn't been forthcoming with explanations; they'd hustled her away as soon as they could, and she'd been shaken enough by the whole experience to go without a lot of argument. She'd spent the last couple of years building up a new practice in Portland, trying to forget River Grove had ever happened.

"She did." Sam's jaw jutted out in determination, not so much a lost little boy as a pouting one now, and she remembered the stubborn way he'd argued with his brother, how neither of them wanted to give an inch.

"Okay." The last thing she wanted was to fight with him. She crumpled the wet, dirty paper towels in her hand and took a step or two forward, into his personal bubble, towards the garbage pail. He stood his ground for a few seconds, then stepped aside so she could toss away the paper towels. She put a hand on the counter to steady herself, took deep breath, and reestablished eye contact.

He started talking before she could say anything. "Look, this virus--it's coming. It's being mass-produced and piggybacked onto the H1N1 vaccine that Niveus Pharmaceuticals is shipping. It's coming in less than two weeks, and I'm the only one who can stop it. And I thought, I _hoped_ you'd be able to help." He sounded so sincere in his desperation that she actually considered what he was saying for a moment before reality--sanity--reasserted itself.

She put a hesitant hand on his forearm, trying not to let him know how much his delusion had freaked her out. He seemed so sane, so believable. "I'm sorry, Sam," she said, and she didn't have to work to be sincere. "Even if I had the full resources of the CDC at my fingertips, even if they believed the threat was real, it would still take way too long to find a vaccine that would work safely, then mass produce and distribute it."

"I could get you the time and the resources."

"Even if you could--"

"I _can_."

She was losing him, and he was losing his grip. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; getting upset would only lead to an escalation. "Okay. Say you can. We can't even get everyone who needs it to take the flu vaccine, and that's as close to safe as these things get, for the most part. An untested vaccine for an unknown virus is never gonna fly with the public, even if you could get the FDA to approve it, and even if we could produce it quickly enough to be useful. And that's without even taking into consideration whether the virus has mutated and overcome your immunity."

"It hasn't."

"You seem awfully sure about things that aren't very certain."

He gave a low grunt of frustration and pushed a hand through his hair, obviously agitated despite her efforts to keep him calm. "And you seem awfully sure that I'm delusional even though you saw what the virus did to the people of River Grove, and you saw that it didn't affect me."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I believe--

"That I believe the virus is a threat." He huffed. "Great. Thanks for that."

She bit her lip. The exhaustion from her day was creeping up on her again after the adrenaline spike of his unexpected presence, and she was finding it hard to figure out how to send him on his way.

"I'm sorry I can't help you with this," she said gently, slowly, still searching for the right words. "If you're ever sick or injured and you're in the vicinity, I can help but--"

The shrill ring of a phone interrupted her, startling them both. Sam pulled it out of his pocket--it looked ridiculously small in his hand--and said, "Dean?"

She couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, and wasn't sure she wanted to. She remembered now that Dean--the brother--had been the more trigger-happy of the two, and if they had to visit, she was glad Sam had come on his own.

"No," Sam was saying, exhaustion clear in his voice, "no luck on this end, either." He paused, then, "I know, Dean. But I had to try." He hung up and gave her a tight smile. "I'm sorry about this. I'll just," he shrugged and nodded in the direction of the front door, "go now."

"Take care of yourself, Sam."

He laughed mirthlessly. "You, too, Dr. Lee."

She walked him out the door and locked it behind him, knees weak with relief. She set the alarm, the little red blinking light a comfort after the bizarre consultation, and headed back to her office for her shoes and her purse. The charts could wait until tomorrow.

Still, she left a note for Carla, to make sure they didn't order their supply of H1N1 vaccine from Niveus. Better safe than sorry.

end

***


End file.
